


Waves of Crimson

by Chronicler



Series: Thramsay Pick ’n’ Mix [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Boats and Ships, Captive, Drabble, Flash Fic, Historical, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pirates, Poor Theon, Ramsay is his own warning, Uniform Kink, prisoner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8451520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: Theon Greyjoy, most infamous buccaneer terrorising the seven seas, has finally been taken prisoner. Captured by Captain Ramsay Bolton, greatest pirate hunter the East India Company has ever seen. His crew dead, Theon is at the mercy of his jailer. And the realisation slowly dawns on him that whilst he may be the outlaw, there are no heroes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: please read tags. Thank you Matty for beta reading. Feedback gratefully received.

A shock of cold. Cold as ice, but tasting of salt. It hits Theon, drenches him.

He splutters, gags, his whole body tense and arching. But he can’t move. Can’t –

He opens his eyes to the sting of salt, finds his wrists bound above him, chained and hanging from a wooden wall, blood dripping down his arms as he slumps forward, more trickling down his forehead into his eyes, dark warmth.

‘Awake? Finally?’ someone says, solidifying as Theon’s eyes struggle to focus. The man grins, look of joy at odds with his uniform and its brass buttons, navy blue against the paleness of his skin and dark curls. ‘I have waited  _hours_.’

‘ _Wher –_ ’ theon’s voice cracks, ‘ _W–wat–_ ’

‘What’s that? Water? We’re surrounded by water! All the water in the world. Here,’ he pours what looks like red wine from a jug into a tankard, and Theon’s mouth waters in anticipation. ‘Is this what you want?’ The man laughs as he pours it onto the wooden planks of the floor. A floor that tilts and surges along with the rest of the cabin, and the burgundy runs along it as the man laughs, gulps down the rest and wipes his hand across his mouth.

He comes so close Theon can feel his warmth, even through cloying air heavy with gunpowder and brine. ‘As for where we are? Why, we’re in the brig on The Dreadfort, of course! You don’t remember? Theon Greyjoy, most infamous _buccaneer_ of the seven seas: you were attempting to board and ransack The Winterfell, naughty boy. Your crew are dead, I executed them myself, had them thrown overboard then hung those who remained from the yardarm.’

It hits Theon harder than the bucket of seawater, the memory of yelling and musket fire over the roar of the ocean, and red, red, red washing over the deck till it spilled over the bow. His shoulders burn, tear, and he struggles to get a footing, toes scrabbling on rough planks, a gasp of pain ripped out of him as bile burns up his throat.

‘My sister?’ he manages to slur out. His sister, tougher than any of them.

‘I saw to her myself. Dressed as a man, she deserved everything she got. Gave her my prick then my sword. And I’m Captain Ramsay Bolton, to answer your next question. You know who I am?’

Theon nods, hair the colour of sand falling into his eyes. Of course he has heard of Bolton – the East India Trading Company’s most vicious hunter of privateers who have the wrong letter of marque. Or, as in Theon’s case, no papers at all.

Blunt fingers meander down Theon’s chest, and the glare of his own nakedness, but for his bitches, hits him. He pulls at the manacles, the iron chains, but Bolton just laughs.

‘Your ship is _mine_ , your plunder is _mine_ , and you are _mine_. I had intended to lynch you with the others, and yet…’ he pulls open the buttons of Theon’s britches, slides his hand inside and palms him. ‘I decided to keep you. Your eyes are the colour of the sea, I had not expected that. I was going to merely claim them from their sockets, however there is no rush. We have a long voyage back to port during which to become better acquainted. They can hang, draw and quarter you there if I have not yet done it myself. You would look quite lovely cut into pieces with your guts piled by your side. Do you know they will cut off your manhood? Root and stem. If I do not save them the trouble.’

The Captain backs away across the cramped quarters, empty but for a wooden chair and table. And on the table is the well-used handle and frayed ropes of a cat o’ nine tails, a blacksmith's pliers, and a dagger glinting in the flickering light from the lantern swaying overhead. ‘Let’s see,’ he says, his hand hovering over them. ‘What shall we try first?’

Mulling it over, he unbuttons his coat, pulls it off and throws it over the back of the chair. Well-developed muscles ripple under the fine cotton of his white shirt where it sticks to him, soaked through with sweat. But no taller than Theon, he is merely stocky. If Theon can just make him angry enough for a fair fight, maybe he can overpower him.

‘You can burn in hell!’ Theon yells, the words dragged out of him, exploding the way his ship had when the cannon balls hit. ‘I’ll not tell you anything!’

And the Captain laughs again as he finally grabs the silver dagger. Lowered voice husky, mocking, he saunters back as though on a leisurely stroll through the Strand. ‘So you do not yet understand? You will. I care nothing for aught you have to say. Your reign is over, and now mine begins. With the king's backing I can do as I please, take what I want. However, right now, all I want is _you_.’

He grins as he takes his blade to Theon, grins as Theon screams, grins as the deck turns crimson.

And Theon remembers, remembers everything. Remembers how the sea ran red, and the flash of teeth as the sharks circled and claimed their prey.

_**The End**_


End file.
